Travelling by steam train to the seaside, I met a Chris Packham-esque naturalist and poet who seemed to like me. At one point, on a fire escape, he said “…shall we share saliva?” and I said “What, you want me to spit on you?” We kissed instead. It wasn’t any good.
I met thriller writer Hammond Innes and he revealed that his famously pulpy book jacket designs were inspired by his own nightmares.
Later I missed most of my conference because I got lost in the venue and forgot who I was.